Eidolon

Warning (PG16)

This episode contains adult themes. Reader discretion recommended.

Kelly & Pasta

One afternoon the sleek Rolls-Royce glided to a stop beneath the towering spire that housed Rei’s penthouse. The drive back from the corporate meeting had been basically silent. Takumi remained at his office, preparing for a sudden trip to Tokyo. Cillian’s posture was rigidly professional beside her in the front seat. Rei wanted to chat, but she saw his tension. She let him cool off, observing the city float by her window.

At the penthouse door, Rei slid her keycard in, then turned rapidly before the door could hiss shut, “Won’t you come in?” Cillian froze, already a few steps down the hall. His eyes, visibly weary, were shadowed with immediate concern, “Rei… that’s not a good idea.”

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice softer, more convincing, “Takumi and I have an agreement. For the next few weeks, he’s letting the Bicoca just observe me for a baseline. No scripts, no forced scenarios. I can hang out with whoever I want. I swear…”, a small, defiant smile touched her lips, “Besides, I want to beat you at mint poker.”

He looked skeptical, his gaze darting down the hall and back as if expecting Takumi to materialize from the shadows. “A baseline,” he repeated, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. “I promise,” she added, leaning against the doorframe, “I won’t be a sore loser.” A dry, disbelieving chuckle escaped him, “Now I know you’re lying.”

But the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. The logic of her explanation, combined with the sheer casualness emanating from her, not to mention the appeal, was a powerful lure. After a final, hesitant glance around, he gave a curt nod and followed her inside.

They settled onto the rug, the familiar deck of cards and colorful mints between them. The game was as intense as ever, filled with their usual teasing barbs. But this time, when Cillian laid down a straight flush to sweep the entire pile of mints, Rei didn’t pout or declare the game stupid. Taking a deep, sharp breath, her jaw tightened. She channeled the frustration, using it as propellant. “No matter,” she declared, standing up abruptly, too stiffly, “You win, fair and square. I’m making you dinner as a reward.”

Cillian looked up, surprised, “Is that a threat or a peace offering?” She marched towards the hi-tech kitchen, “It’s a fact. Sit there and be amazed.” As she began pulling out pans and ingredients, he leaned back against the sofa, watching her with an amused smile, “So this is your coping mechanism for losing? Domesticity?”  She almost dropped a pan, catching it as it landed loudly on the stove. “Quiet, you,” she shot back, chopping an onion with focused vengeance, “Or I’ll undercook your pasta – or worse: overcook it.”

He laughed, the sound rich and easy in the spacious room, “A true menace.” But as the aromas of garlic, fresh basil, and simmering tomatoes began to fill the penthouse, his teasing slowly ceased. Cillian watched the fluid, confident grace of her movements, the way she seasoned by instinct rather than measurement. When she finally placed a bowl of perfect cacio e pepe in front of him, the pasta gleaming with a silky, emulsified sauce, he became engrossed.

He took a bite, then another. His usual teasing demeanor vanished, replaced by an appraising silence for a long moment. “This is…” he began, then shook his head, at a loss for words. Cillian looked at her, his green eyes serious. He set his fork down, all traces of joking gone, replaced by something akin to reverence. “Okay, missy,” he said, his voice low and utterly serious, “We need a rule, officially cemented – no jokes at dinner, at least not about this”, he gestured with his fork to the bowl, “That’s… that’s not food, that’s a miracle.”

Rei felt a tingle spread through her chest. In the glow of the kitchen lights, with the taste of her mother’s heritage on their tongues and the unspoken growing connection between them, the ever-present hum of the Bicoca jewelry faded into insignificance. For this one, stolen evening, the greatest part wasn’t winning or losing a game, but sharing a perfect meal.

When the last bite of pasta was gone, a comfortable silence followed. Rei stood, gathering the empty bowls. “Coffee?” she asked, already moving towards the machine, “I have cookies too. My mother’s old recipe, actually. An heirloom from my great-grandmother.” She returned with two espresso cups and a small plate of delicate, almond-dusted biscotti. Cillian took one, biting into it with a thoughtful crunch.

“Doesn’t taste old,” he said after a moment, a warm, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes, “Tastes like good memories.” Rei beamed, encouraged, “What about you? Any Irish family dishes? Did your grandma make anything special?” The shift in his expression was subtle but immediate. A shutter came down behind his green eyes. He masked it with a wry grin. “Irish? You mean British food? It’s mostly rubbish. Except for a good Irish stew. Now, that’s a dish”, he deftly pivoted, his gaze drifting to the mirrored bar where a bottle of top-shelf whiskey gleamed, “But whiskey, that is the best Irish delicacy. Food for the soul.”

Rei let out an exaggerated, playfully disappointed sigh, “I see where you’re looking, stop pleading.” She fetched the bottle and two crystal tumblers, pouring a generous measure into each. When she handed him his glass and sat down opposite him, her voice softened, “Do you… not like talking about your family? I didn’t mean to pry. I just… wanted to get to know you better.”

Cillian took a long, slow taste of the whiskey, letting the amber liquid burn a path down his throat. He set the glass down slowly. “It’s difficult to hide anything from you, isn’t it?” he said, his voice quieter now, the usual bravado gone. He sighed, a reluctant admission, “It’s not my favorite subject.” A long, heavy pause stretched between them. Rei sat still, beginning to regret her directness, fearing she’d shattered their reignited camaraderie.

Then, Cillian rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of unease. “I’d prefer not to go into details,” he said, his eyes fixed on his glass, “Let’s just say I’m not on the best of terms with them. An unfortunate accident… and a lot of escalated misunderstandings. Things turned awry.” The words were a peak into a vault with the door closing. Rei heard the finality in his tone and knew better than to pick the lock.

The gym whispers about the Exiled Kelly and the Kelly Weapons Corporation’s black sheep swirled in her mind, but she let them lie. She offered a small, understanding smile. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Lightening her tone, she grasped for the earlier thread, “I promise to cook you stew sometime. If you’d like.” That broke the tension. A real smile returned to Cillian’s face, reaching his eyes this time. “An Irish stew?” he asked, a spark of challenge returning. “Sure. I promise to give it my all,” Rei said, placing a hand over her heart with comical seriousness.

Midnight came around and Cillian moved to leave. Rei walked him to the door. The air in the hallway grew thick with the unspoken attraction that had been simmering all evening. They stood for a moment, the silence loud with possibility. The easy warmth of the kitchen had condensed into something else, something charged and delicate between them, thick as the scent of almonds and espresso on their breath. 

Cillian paused, the door handle within reach. “The stew, I’ll hold you to that”, he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet. “Consider it a date then,” Rei replied, leaning her shoulder against the wall beside him. She was close, closer than a driver needed to be to his charge. The overhead light caught the flecks in his green eyes, the tired lines she now wanted to smooth away with her thumb.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. They were guarded, scanning her face as if reading a complex security report. The silence stretched, filled with the memory of their shared laughter, the reverence in his voice over her pasta, the shutter that had closed over his past. Rei’s gaze drifted from his eyes to the crisp line of his collar, where his tie sat slightly askew after the long day. An impulse, warm and reckless, took hold. 

“Your collar’s crooked,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Before he could move or protest, she reached up. Her fingers brushed against the warm skin of his neck as she straightened the fabric. It was an intimate, unnecessary gesture. She let her hand linger, her thumb tracing the fine wool of his lapel, “This suit… really does fit you well. I always thought it makes you look less like a corpo and more like… a person.” 

Her eyes lifted to meet his. She was leaning in, well within the radius where a breath could be shared, where a tilt of the head would close the gap entirely. She saw the conflict ignite in his gaze, a sudden, hot flare of attraction that mirrored the ache in her own chest, swiftly chased by a cold, tactical alarm. He didn’t pull away, instead his hand came up and closed, not roughly, but firmly, around her wrist where it rested against his chest. His skin was warm, his grip solid. She could feel the rapid, hammering pulse beneath her fingers, or maybe it was his own. He swallowed, the muscle in his jaw tightening. 

“Rei,” he said, her name a strained syllable. “He’s in Tokyo by now,” she murmured, the argument weak even to her own ears, “The baseline… it’s just observation, no limits, no rules.” His voice was thick as he replied wearily, “There’s always rules.” He was holding her wrist, but he was also holding himself, a man on a cliff’s edge. She could almost see the memories playing behind his eyes: Takumi’s icy displeasure, the implicit threats wrapped in corporate jargon about professional boundaries and the singular focus required for an Asset Project Owner. 

The price of stepping out of line wasn’t just a reprimand; it was expulsion from her orbit, or worse. The war inside him was almost palpable. For one terrifying second, his gaze dropped to her lips, and his grip on her wrist softened into something closer to a caress. Then, with a visible, almost physical effort, he let go. Gently, he guided her hand down from his chest, lowering her arm until it fell back to her side. He took a deliberate step back, the space between them cooling instantly into a professional chasm. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, the gesture vulnerable and defensive. A crooked, self-deprecating smile ghosted across his lips, but it didn’t touch the regret in his eyes. 

“I appreciate the compliment,” he said, forcing a lightness into his tone that rang hollow, “Loved the food even more. But I’ve also grown rather fond of my head being attached to my shoulders. Takumi’s particular about his… favourite.” The word landed between them like a shard of glass. Rei flinched.

“I’m not—”, she started, the protest hot and immediate. She opened her mouth to explain, to assure him she didn’t intend for Takumi’s jealousy to touch him, that she had fought for this freedom. But the words died. She saw the stark reality in his resigned expression. He was right, she couldn’t guarantee it. The ‘baseline’ was a flimsy shield. Takumi’s absences didn’t negate his ownership; they just made the chains longer, more invisible. Any transgression would be found in the data, seen by the Bicoca, or simply felt in the possessive intuition of a man like Takumi. The consequence wouldn’t fall only on her; they would fall on Cillian too. 

“Goodnight, my lady,” he said with a formal bow, his voice a low rumble, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, “Thank you for the… miraculous dinner.” Before the moment could deepen, he turned and slipped out, stepping into the hallway, the door frame now squarely between them, a literal and symbolic barrier. The hallway outside was a silent, plush gauntlet. “Get some sleep, Rei,” he said, his voice final, the role as a guardian back in place, “I’ll be here to pick you up at eight.” 

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Rei alone with the echo of his presence and the tantalizing puzzle of the man known as the Exiled Kelly. She remained a moment in the vast, silent foyer. The lingering warmth of his grip on her wrist faded, replaced by the cool air of the penthouse.

The tenderness of the evening curdled into a complex, aching regret. It wasn’t just the sting of rejection, not really. It was a choice made from a map of threats she herself had drawn him into. He had pulled away to protect them both, and the terrible truth was that he was probably right. She touched the cool bracelet on her wrist, no longer just a monitor, but the first link in the chain that kept him on the other side of the door.